


A Quick Fist of Light

by gunpowdereyes



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-12
Updated: 2010-06-12
Packaged: 2018-02-04 10:41:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1776160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gunpowdereyes/pseuds/gunpowdereyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A little bit of retrospective nothing written circa . . . we'll say 2010.  (The archiving continues.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Quick Fist of Light

There is no beginning. 

There is a time when Orlando shakes your hand, buoyant, beautiful; it's overstimulation just to look at him. He is overjoyed, he's aglow with excitement, he's in love with everything. He's in love with everyone. He's in love with you.

Then there's a time when he's astride your hips, or beneath you, or beside you, his hair long and sweat-damp and curling tightly at the edges, or razed into a mohawk, or cropped close. Always the same exultant face. The elegant hands, clever fingers. Luxuriant mouth. You try to capture him in these moments, try to hold him precisely in your mind so that you can write later. Or maybe paint him. But you can never translate that particular spark; the way his smile reflects through his entire body -- a glint in his eyes, but also the easy curve of his shoulders, also an open invitation in his stance. You can still feel his grasp though, you still have the bruises that are particularly his. You stand beside him every day and you can close your eyes and feel the criminal tenderness in his kisses and you know that he's thinking it too. You can feel the air shimmering around you. Just the both of you, a thin layer of seperation from your surroundings. He glances blinkfast at you and he's a graceful arc beneath you, throat exposed, breathing your name as he comes.

You told him once that it was unfair. That you know how this ends, and you know that he doesn't, and that he will break you. Trouble was he'd already begun, even then; leaning against the arm of a couch, smile low and predatory, asking-daring you to take the extra three steps and have him. He just laughed at you and said you were stalling. And you probably were; it was too late even then to ask him to reconsider, and what if he had, anyway? As if it wouldn't have still happened. If it wasn't as easy as watching him flick open the button of his pants, watching you beneath his lashes, then it would have been a drunken accident, or a late-night run-in, or a quiet, cold morning when you were utterly alone together. You are curious, and sooner or later you would have wanted to know what drives him, what makes him laugh, what it is he's thinking when he looks at you, and how it is that he can be within and out of reach at the same time. The pupil outstripping the master; it's a tale as old as time, but you knew that. You would have found and dissected him, but you still wouldn't have been in control. You would have thrived on it; you do now.

"V," Orlando says, half-asleep and struggling to focus on you. "You think too fucking much."

There will be a time when you see him after long absence, in five years or maybe ten. He will have a wife and a baby and a calm in his limbs that is entirely foreign to you. You will have more grey in your beard; more scars, more words spilled out and lost. None of it will be unnatural. None of it will keep the two of you from drawing together, however briefly, however chastely. He will smile and be 24 again, watching you as if you set the order of every star in the sky. You will meet his beautiful daughter. You will take a picture, and he will say "for old time's sake," and you will both walk away pretending that life has just gone on, as easily as that.

You know that you're another adventure for him. You are a novelty, an adrenaline rush, and there will be something new after that, and after that, and after that. He isn't malicious -- just the opposite. He really does love you; he would walk into hell with you and kiss you as flame licked the flesh from your bones. He really does believe that this can go on. He is so earnest that you ache. And he's a challenge for you too, of course. You have fought and made up, fucked and made love, stolen days where you barely speak and days where you never stop talking. 

There is no beginning and there won't be an end. He won't be contained by such boring boundaries. You will carry him forever, and you hope to keep him exactly like this: brash and wild and free; a perfect streak of light here-and-gone, like a meteor roaring across the horizon.


End file.
